They were within a few feet of the table when Kerry reached out a hand for her glass of lemonade and Falconer was galvanised into action. With a cry of, ‘Don’t drink that!’ he lunged forward and dashed the glass from her hand.
Martha Cadogan’s actions were just as fleet. In one fluid movement, unexpected in one of such age, she had reached into her bag and now stood before them, holding, at chest height, a venerable service revolver. Falconer and Carmichael froze; Kerry looked on appalled, her hand still outstretched, reaching for the glass that now lay on its side on the grass beside her chair.
‘Don’t move, any of you,’ Martha commanded. ‘This is my father’s gun from the Great War. It may be old,’ she explained, ‘but I’ve kept it well-oiled and in use all these years.’ Her voice had the same quiet, reasonable tone that she must have used in all those years of teaching, just making the situation even more bizarre.
‘I often carry it in case I come across a creature in the woods that needs an end to its misery. They still set traps around here, you know,’ she continued almost conversationally. ‘On one occasion I even found a wounded deer. You can’t just knock a creature of that size on the head with a stone. So I’ve kept Daddy’s revolver in good condition and I’ve used it when necessary. Don’t be foolish enough to think that I will be afraid to use it now.’
Carmichael had heard her clearly up to the mention of the deer, and then his own body had turned on him. His bowels cramped viciously as another wave of nausea swept over him. His dizziness heightened, he heard as if through cotton wool, and the scene before him bleached of colour, until it was monochrome and beginning to blur.
As the old lady uttered her last sentence the sergeant, in complete silence, dropped his not inconsiderable length across her in a dead faint, knocking her to the ground as he did so. As a surprise attack it was perfect, taking both attacker and victim with the same degree of surprise.
The gun fell from her grasp un-discharged, and Falconer sprang forward, retrieving first the weapon, then advancing upon the old lady who was firmly pinned to the ground under Carmichael’s bulk, and sufficiently winded to have no strength left with which to struggle. His actions were not aided by Buster, who contributed to the melée by dancing around the prone figures barking, and the inspector called quite roughly for Kerry to pull him off and shut him in the house.
It was several minutes before an order of sorts was restored. Falconer had retrieved Kerry’s glass, a few drops of liquid still retained in it, and put it aside for forensic analysis, doing the same with the other tumbler and jug just to be on the safe side. The revolver, which he had wrapped carefully in his handkerchief, now made an inelegant bulge in his jacket pocket.
Carmichael, he had unceremoniously pulled to his feet and assisted him to a chair, to repeat the process with his felled victim, despatching Kerry once more into the kitchen for glasses of water, while he made a call on his mobile phone for a car to collect Miss Cadogan.
His sergeant sat huffing and puffing like a grampus, as he fought for an acceptable level of awareness, and it was Martha who seemed to make a quicker recovery. ‘I know you’re going to take me to the police station, Inspector, but would you be so kind as to let me collect a handkerchief first?’
‘I shall accompany you to see that is all that you do,’ agreed Falconer, marvelling at the fact that, in these circumstances, the old lady should still hold true to her upbringing and not want to leave the house without something on which to blow her nose. He only hoped she did not want to change into fresh bloomers, with him as a reluctant witness.
She was still a little shaky after her fall, and he offered her his arm as he led her into the house and upstairs. Her bedroom, when they reached it, was exactly as he would have imagined it: rag rugs on the floor, hand-sewn patchwork quilt on the old high dark wood frame of the bed, a sampler hanging above its headboard that read Suffer the little children to come unto me. The room smelt of lavender, and transported him back to the room that his grandmother had slept in when he was a boy.
‘It’s in the washstand drawer by the bed, inspector. Do you want to open the drawer first?’ Goodness, she was on the ball, and here he was, awash with nostalgia.
‘Thank you, I will, Miss Cadogan, just to make sure there’s nothing unexpected in there.’
From the drawer’s depths Martha extracted a white lace-edged handkerchief with the initials MC embroidered in red in one corner. Falconer had expected the handkerchief to be pristine, and it was creased and stiff; not used, but somehow not fresh.
Seeing his gaze she smiled softly. ‘Starched but, alas, un-ironed, Inspector. A rare moment of laziness which I’m sure you’ll forgive, given the circumstances.’
Embarrassed, he nodded agreement, and turned away as she tucked it into her upper undergarments for safekeeping.
‘I think it’s time to go now,’ he said, hearing a car pull up outside. ‘I’ll send the sergeant home with Ms Long and I’ll come in the car with you if you like.’
‘Thank you very much, young man, but can you do one more thing for me before we go?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can you arrange for Lillian to collect Buster and his bits and pieces. He can’t stay here on his own, and someone will have to look after him while I’m away.’
IV
A call to the vicarage alerted Bertie Swainton-Smythe to the current situation and he agreed to collect Buster immediately, then tackle the difficult task of explaining to Lillian that her aunt had been arrested for murder. That sounded like a litre-of-gin task to Falconer, and he sent up a silent prayer for the vicar as he ended the call.
Falconer dispatched Carmichael and Kerry Long to Jasmine Cottage for a statement to be taken, explaining that he would travel in the official car with the old lady.
‘What about your car, sir? It’s parked in the village.’
Despite the heat Falconer shivered, blanched and swallowed hard, facing up to the reality of what was being suggested. ‘You’ll have to drive it back to the station, Sergeant,’ and he handed over the keys with a heavy heart. ‘You will be gentle with her, won’t you?’
‘Course, sir. Be a fair treat to drive a beast like that. Bet she goes like the clappers.’
‘Not on a first date, Carmichael. Not on a first date, so be warned.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Tuesday 21st July – late afternoon
I
Martha Cadogan was perfectly prepared to make a full statement, and sat now in an interview room opposite Falconer as he explained the recording procedure to her. Behind her and beside the door, sat Acting DS Carmichael, returned from Castle Farthing and looking a good deal better than he had that morning. No doubt a good blast through the country lanes in someone else’s pride and joy had had something to do with that, thought Falconer darkly, as he prepared to switch on the recording equipment.
‘Before we begin, Inspector, do you think I may have what you might call a last request?’
He checked the movement of his hand and asked, ‘What sort of request?’
‘Well, I’ve never smoked in my life, but I’ve seen things like this in television programmes. Do you think I might have a cigarette to try? It’s hardly likely to do me any harm at my great age, and it would satisfy a curiosity of mine.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Falconer demurred, surprised. Carmichael was duly sent off to persuade Bob Bryant from the front desk to part with one of his beloved comforters, and to escort Miss Cadogan out to the dedicated smoking area (otherwise known as ‘round the back of the canteen’).
A few minutes later, Falconer switched on the twin cassette-recorder, said his frontispiece and Martha, coughing slightly from her one unsuccessful flirtation with tobacco, began to speak.
‘Of course, you know now that I was responsible for both of those deaths.’
‘The deaths of Reginald Morley of Crabapple Cottage, High Street, Castle Farthing, and Michael Lowry of Castle Farthing Gar
age, Drovers Lane, Castle Farthing,’ Falconer clarified, speaking directly to tape.
‘I drugged them with sleeping tablets first, you know, so they wouldn’t struggle. I’m not strong, and I couldn’t have managed if they’d fought back.’
‘Where did you get the sleeping tablets, Miss Cadogan?’ At least that would be one little mystery cleared up.
‘They were prescribed for a very old friend of mine, Evelyn Prendergast; we’ve known each other since we were children. I went up to Nottingham to nurse her through her last illness, just after New Year. Like me, she never married, and had no family who could help, and she had always been a good friend to me. It was the least I could do.
‘It was cancer of course, and it had spread all over her body. She didn’t want to die in a hospice amongst strangers, so I went and did what I could, and the Macmillan nurse came round and did what I couldn’t. She’d had a new prescription filled for sleeping tablets when the pain suddenly got much worse, and she was given large doses of morphine round the clock and didn’t need them any more. She only lasted a few days after that and, although I meant to hand the pills into the chemist, I somehow didn’t get round to it.’
‘These were diazepam tablets?’
‘That’s right. I understand they can be quite addictive, but that hardly mattered in Evelyn’s case. Any addiction was doomed to be short-lived, given her state of health.
‘Anyway, I brought them back with me; thought I might need some help sleeping after losing my oldest friend – we went to school together in the village you know, before her family moved north. Anyway, I took one – felt awful the next day – then thought I might put them to better use helping sick or injured animals out of their pain and suffering. I always felt a bit awkward using Daddy’s gun, and this would be just like going to sleep for them, so I always carried a few of them dissolved in water (with a little sugar to take away the bitterness) in a little pill bottle in my bag.’
Even the shock of being discovered as a murderess had not deflected the old lady’s thoughts from her concerns for animal welfare, thought Falconer ruefully.
‘I also carried a length of wire with me. Small animals caught in traps are too much for my old hands, but I could still help them out of their misery with a loop of wire.’
‘If we might return to the two human deaths, Miss Cadogan.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to explain how it came about that I had the means with me in my bag that Sunday evening.’
‘What made you decide on that particular day to do something like that?’
‘To murder him? Oh, it could have been for any number of reasons, as you know, on any day, but that particular day I’d seen him tug and tug at poor Buster’s lead, dragging him along half-choked, and I saw red. It was like a bomb going off in my head, and I just decided that that was the last time that man would ever inflict suffering on another living creature.
‘But I didn’t rush into it. I bided my time, and walked back to the village at about half past eleven. It was always quiet by that time on a Sunday night, and if anyone saw me they’d assume I was off to see the badgers in the wood, or out looking for strays. I wasn’t in the least worried or nervous.
‘I knocked on his door and he just let me in; seemed in a rare good mood and pleased to have someone to talk to, about whatever had cheered him so. He started prattling on, I noticed he had milk heating on the stove, and it seemed as if everything had been set up ready for me: as if it were meant.
‘He didn’t turn a hair when I offered to make his cocoa. It was almost too easy. Cocoa’s a bitter drink, and Reg had smoked most of his life and was always complaining that nothing had any taste any more. I just poured the contents of my little bottle into his drink and sat with him until he’d talked himself to sleep. Then I wrapped the wire round his neck and pulled as hard as I could, and then twisted it. Dear little Buster never stirred; he’s always had a soft spot for me.’
‘About the wire, Miss Cadogan,’ began Falconer.
‘Oh yes, before I forget, you’ll find the rest of the roll in my garden shed. I’m afraid you won’t be able to get a match on the cut end, because I was using some of it to mend the trellis when you called on Saturday afternoon. Do you remember? You were kind enough to pass me the pliers to cut it.’
Falconer remembered, and blushed that vital evidence had sat under his very nose, unrecognised for what it was.
‘I’d like to show you something, Miss Cadogan,’ the inspector said, feeling in his jacket pocket. ‘Would you tell me if you recognise this?’ and he opened his hand to reveal the coin that had proved to be the key to unravelling the whole sorry chain of events for him.
Her face lit up. ‘Why, it’s my lucky coin, inspector. Where on earth did you find it? I’ve had it since I was a girl – found it up at the old castle ruins playing digging for buried treasure. I must have been about six years old.’
‘Sergeant Carmichael found it outside, at the back of Mr Morley’s cottage.’
‘May I have it back?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. Can you tell me how it came to be where it was found?’
‘Of course,’ she remembered. ‘When I knew Reg was quite dead I got up to leave and little Buster was so eager to come with me. I told him I’d be back for him the very next day, but I had such a struggle keeping him in and getting the door shut, that I dropped my bag. I thought I’d picked up everything, but that must have been when I lost it. I didn’t miss it for a day or two, so I couldn’t be sure just when it had gone astray, and I’d quite forgotten dropping my bag like that till now.’
‘Shall we move on to the death of Michael Lowry now?’
‘That nasty boy! He was getting quite as bad as Reg. Why, the way he spoke to me on Wednesday morning last, and the way he attacked my poor Buster – he kicked him you know; really bruised his ribs. Well, that was almost the last straw.
‘I had everything I needed in my bag that evening at Mr Romaine’s birthday celebrations – Lillian even chided me for bringing such a bulky article with me, but I told her I was too old for such nonsense as evening bags – and even then I wasn’t sure I was going to go through with it. And then that beastly boy started in on just about everyone there, accusing them of all sorts of things, just like his great-uncle. That’s when I knew that I was going to go through with it. He had to go too.’
A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she said this last, and Falconer’s blood ran cold at her lack of remorse.
‘I decided I’d put him out of everyone else’s misery, so to speak,’ she continued. ‘I chose my moment and went to the bar to buy a round of drinks, making sure that I took my bag with me. I palmed the bottle as I took out my purse.
‘That Michael Lowry had put his pint of beer on the bar and was laying about him with that evil tongue of his. No one took any notice of me: they were all looking at him. It’s really amazing what you can get away with if you’re audacious enough about it. I just slipped off the top, held my hand over his glass, and the deed was done.’
Falconer whistled through his teeth. Just like a conjuror, he thought. Distract the audience and the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.
‘And that was everything put into motion, Inspector. I called to check that Bertie had got home – I hardly wanted to run into him, with what I had in mind, did I? And about midnight I slipped out the back way. The only time I was in the open was crossing Drovers Lane, and the rest of the village was asleep by then.’
If only you knew, Falconer thought. That particular night, Castle Farthing was positively alive with furtive figures creeping about. If she had come by way of the village centre, she would have found it positively crawling with people.
‘And that was it. I let myself in – I knew Bertie couldn’t have secured the door – slipped my little piece of wire round his neck, and then he was dead too.’
By the time Martha Cadogan had finished making her statement, afternoon had become eve
ning and, as they escorted her back to her ‘room’ (as she called it), she asked if she could have a glass of water, as she often got thirsty in the night.
Falconer agreed without hesitation, although he forbore to add that it would be a plastic mug of water. Glass was much too dangerous a substance to be allowed to prisoners in custody.
As they left her, Carmichael asked, ‘What will happen to her, sir? She’s so old. And she doesn’t even seem to care about what she’s done.’
‘God knows, Carmichael. I certainly don’t. I’m just glad it’s out of our hands now.’
II
Martha Cadogan lay down on her hard bunk mattress and waited until someone had opened the spy-hole in the door and checked her, the picture of a sweet old lady asleep.
As the footsteps moved away, she extracted from her undergarments the stiff, crumpled handkerchief she had collected earlier from her bedroom, in anticipation of this moment This she inserted into her mug of water, stirring it with her fingers for a good couple of minutes, watching the water turn cloudy. Finally, she extracted the small piece of material, wrung it out over the mug, and placed it tidily over the end of the bunk frame to dry, tidy to the end.
Really, she thought, it had been most useful watching that documentary on the various and imaginative ways in which people smuggled drugs into the country. Little bottles weren’t the only vehicle in which one could transport oblivion, and it had given her the chance to be prepared.
Lifting the mug to her lips, she drank until it was empty, then laid down, ready to meet her maker.
Life was declared extinct by the police surgeon the following morning, when the duty officer had failed to rouse her.
Epilogue
Autumn
Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1) Page 20
